Hansel
by his-little-troll
Summary: Sherlock has an unusual client, and he gives nothing away.
1. Chapter 1

**Hansel**

A peculiar client had entered Baker Street. He was entirely silent, brown eyes unblinking as they watched Sherlock pace around the small living room. Ratty black curls, smudged cheeks, tattered jacket. Gaze distant, shoulders slumped, the kid didn't need to tell him he'd come from a complicated situation. There was enough evidence to scream it to any unobservant fool. Yet, somehow he'd come here, to Sherlock's home. It could not be a coincidence.

"What's your name?" He checked. Not underfed. Jacket was once expensive, several years ago. No response. He circled slowly, turning about the room as he considered. There wasn't much information to go on.

"Where'd you come from? Do you remember anything?" He was uncomfortable using his usual methods on children. They weren't like adults. Far less resilient. "Do you know where you are?"

The boy's voice was gravelly, underused when he said "Sherlock Holmes." So he did know where he was. Now, to answer why and what and who. First…

He picked up his phone, dialed Lestrade's number. It was two rings this time. Good, things were settling back into normal. Until now, Lestrade had answered on a half ring.

"What's it now, I'm busy." Something loud sounded in the background, not a siren but something thumping and beeping. A construction site? Didn't matter.

"There's a child here."

"A child?"

"Young boy." He studied him for a moment. "Between ten and twelve, black hair, brown eyes, average weight. Obvious trauma. No discernable injuries of any importance." The boy's eyes were wide, fear evident as Sherlock spoke on the phone. "A bit gun-shy though. Be cautious."

"On my way." He could hear Sally protesting in the background. She probably thought he was being superfluous again.

He sat on his sofa, gesturing for the child to sit in John's chair. He did not move. Sherlock thrummed his hands together, watching the boy's still, frightened stance. There were hardly any deductions to be made, and any attempts to gather evidence from the child would only likely upset him further. There were likely fibers on the jacket, maybe even hairs. Lestrade would be able to check for any missing children reports. Eventually, a name would pop up. He wasn't allowed access to children's records. Lestrade did draw lines, despite what everyone thought.

What to do until then? The only words the kid said were HIS name. He was just pondering over data retrieval when Mrs. Hudson entered the room, no doubt to tell him about Lestrade's timely arrival. The most peculiar, and terrifying thing happened.

The boy's face turned ashen, his lips quivering before he let out a scream that split the air. His entire demeanor changed. Arms flailing, legs flying, he fell to his backside and slid along the floor until he crashed into Sherlock's bookcase.

"Out, OUT! Mrs. Hudson, get out of here!" He had shoved her through the door, pulled Lestrade in and observed.

The boy calmed the moment Mrs. Hudson was out of the room. Instead of still and unmoving, however, he twitched and tensed. Fear left his face quivering and his hands ringing. His eyes flit from Sherlock to the Detective Inspector. A moment passed before Sherlock moved, slowly enough not to set off another attack. When Lestrade took a step toward him, he backed up again.

"What's happened? What's wrong?"

"I don't know?"

"What'd he say was wrong?"

"Nothing!" The boy was screaming again, lurching towards him, arms outstretched.

"Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes." Small arms wrapped round his legs. "SherlockHolmesSherlockHolmes." Hyperventilating. He had to calm down, now.

"Leave. Send medical help."

By the time Lestrade sent in the medical help, he had calmed the boy down enough to get his breathing under control. Enough training and experience had forced him to handle as much as he could, but this was beyond his realm of understanding. The child needed comfort and care and a lot of other things. In a repeat of previous encounters, the child exhibited signs of terror as soon as the nurse approached him. Backing away, she held up her hands and tried to shh the cries into silence. Once more, small arms wrapped around his legs.

"He sounds fine. I can't say anything conclusive, but I wouldn't say anything besides shock and trauma is wrong with him. You're going to have to take him to a doctor and get him checked out."

"Fine. Get out of here if you've nothing useful to say." He shoved her out the door as well, fought the kid from his calves and paced about the room. There was nothing else to do with it, he'd have to call John.

He leaned down, eye level with the boy's face and knees. "I'm calling a man right now, he's a doctor. You need to see a doctor." No response. "He's a friend. He's a good man, you understand?" Slowly, one nod, two. Confirmation of comprehension.

"John? There's a child here. No, don't bring Mary. He won't speak to women, absolutely not." He looked back, surprised to see curls bouncing as the boys head shook. "Hold on."

"What? What is it?"

"Molly Hooper."

He dropped the phone. The only two names from his client's mouth. A million points connected their lives. Which one plugged this child into their timelines?


	2. Chapter 2

**Hansel**

"Did you say Molly Hooper?" The child nodded. "How do you know Molly Hooper?" No answer, just a blank stare once more. He glanced at his phone. John's name still blazed in black against the green neon of his screen. Still on then.

He picked up the cell, breathed deeply. "John, bring Molly. I know what I said. Bring Molly. I don't know." More silence. The kid was giving him nothing to go on, but he had a suspicion. Just a small one, just a problematic piece of an unsolved puzzle from ages ago.

He studied the child over again, but nothing more stood out. Well-fed at one point, dirty, traumatized. Something about the dead look in his eyes was disturbing. He'd seen very few people look that way, and never any children. It usually accompanied certain death.

When his door knocked again, the child's head jerked to the door. Finally, his expression lit. Something akin to curiosity and anticipation mingled with something even more unrecognizable. A soft whisper from pouted lips slithered through the room. This kid was creepy.

"Sherlock Holmes can save you. Sherlock Holmes can save you." He breathed, closed his eyes. "Molly Hooper is the angel. Molly Hooper is the angel. Molly Hooper is the angel." Not breaking the child's stare, he opened the door.

"Sherlock, I was at—" Molly stopped, face pale.

"Molly Hooper is the angel." No longer whispering, the boy was excited. He ran, wrapped his arms around Molly, and cried. Tears dripped from his face, snot rolled from his nose.

"Molly, is there something you'd like to say?" It was John who finally spoke.

"I… He's the spitting image of…" She had trouble forming the thought.

"Molly, now is not the time to be dull."

"When did he get here?"

"This morning, he just walked into my flat. This is the most he's said since he got here."

"What does he mean?"

"I don't know."

"Deduce, dammit, deduce." He swung around, feet still mid-march. Molly had never demanded anything of him.

"The most I've gotten has been that he escaped from somewhere indoors, well-fed up to a point. Jacket is a few years old, hair has recently been combed. Likely this morning. Trauma more heavily leans towards women, meaning whoever watched over him was probably a woman, older based on the strength of his reaction to Mrs. Hudson. Based on the damage to his vocal chords, I'd wager he's screamed a good bit before, with little done to soothe his throat. Not a caretaker. Just enough to keep him alive, keep him going. He escaped without incident, no bruises, no sign of a struggle."

"Sherlock, none of this has to do with why he's calling me the angel. Why's he calling me an angel?" Too much panic in her voice. It snags his attention, turns him back towards her. He realizes for a moment that the most apparent thing in the room is not actually the most interesting thing in the room.

"You know why he's calling you angel." It's not a question. He knows. He can tell by the fear on her face and the hitch in her voice. "Why?" John, as ever, is confused. He's doing his subtle glances between them with his eyebrows all gathered like this is the most ludicrous display he's seen all year.

"J-Jim used to call me angel. It was weird. We didn't really date, but he called me angel anyway."

If Sherlock Holmes had never experienced true fear, he did now. It wasn't hysterical or gripping as he'd expected. This was cold creep of understanding something he never wanted to understand. The boy clutching at Molly didn't understand the weight of it.

"Jim Moriarty used to call you angel and you never thought to mention it?"

"Why the bloody hell would I ever mention that? Ever?" He wonders if she realizes she's started running her hands through the boy's hair. Wonders if that's just part of her instinct, part of the force of being Molly?

"Because it's significant. Angels means something significant to Moriarty." He paced again. What was this game? What was it this time?

"He's asleep." Everything is calm now. John dozed in his chair, but Molly still stood, hands still pulling through ratted curls.

John jerked awake at a kick to the shins, checked the boy over and found no medical issues. The patient slept soundly through the check-up. Fatigue could be added to his list of symptoms them. Sherlock knew before the day was over the detectives would show up, they'd take the child away for questioning and to some home where he'd be warm and entirely unsafe. So he studied every moment he had with him, trying with every moment to get more information. But there was no more. The dirt could be from anywhere, as far as he could tell now. He'd gathered samples but it did no good at the moment. He would need the lab for the test.

Molly had just begun shifting uncomfortably when someone banged on his door. Two people, Sally and another. The other had done the knocking, and was now getting scolded.

"Sherlock, we've got to take the kid now. Social services is pounding at our door."

"And you're pounding at mine. How circular." He watched the sleeping boy. "His name is Hansel, I'm keeping him."

"He's not a puppy, Sherlock. You can't keep him." He glanced from Molly to the child.

"I can. I know his closest living relative." Sally laughed dryly. She didn't believe him. "No, really, I do. You can take him away to do a DNA test, but you'll find I'm correct anyway."

"Just because you say something doesn't mean it's true. Molly's never had children, Sherlock."

"No. But her mother has. Obviously." Molly paled again.

"Besides her vague and unhelpful comment, Molly Hooper has the same eye shape and color, similar jaw lines. Not enough immediately to say they're related and not just physical coincidence. However, the whorls in their hair go in the same direction, clear hereditary mark." He sat down, leaned forward on his hands, and finished off. "Of course, the biggest indicator is that Molly's sentence would have finished 'Spitting image of Joseph', her brother who lives in America now."

She didn't even ask how he knew there was a brother in America. He was Sherlock Holmes. He knew everything.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hansel**

Of course, they had to take him for testing anyway. Sally was right, Sherlock couldn't just keep him and just because he said 'Hansel is Molly's brother' didn't prove anything. Didn't mean he had to like that it impeded his work, set back his schedules. Left him alone with a distressed Molly.

"You named him."

She sat in John's chair. The doctor had left to ask if Mary had heard anything to help with the boy's case, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone. He itched to run to the lab, check over the dirt, check the boy's hair, check every and any piece of data he could. The need to work strummed through him and vibrated his bones.

"You named him Hansel. Why Hansel?"

"The parallels were obvious. Boy kept by an older evil woman, aka witch, who is fed and taken care of but not with care. He escapes, and searches the reason he was taken in the first place."

"You think he's really my brother." She was pale again. She needed something from him, some kind of reassurance. He shifted on his feet, looked about the room.

"Yes. I'm almost positive of it. You never had any suspicion? If you're mother went missing, how come you didn't come to me?" Her face was nearly as pale as death when she leaned back, let out a shaky breath.

"She never went missing, Sherlock. She died. Three years ago." She choked on his name, tears trickling down her cheeks.

"Oh." So a preteen brother was not good news. Or even remotely expected news. He'd messed up again.

"It's not your fault." She sits up, straightens her back. "I've always wanted a kid. I'll be able to take care of him."

"You're going to take care of him?" He turned, picking up the skull to ponder over it. "Will I be allowed to question him?"

"Not if he doesn't want to be questioned." Her voice is resolute.

"If he is not against it? He may not even speak to you." Her shoulders slumped. "He may have been sent here expressly to keep an eye on you and lead Moriarty to your doorstep."

"He didn't come to my doorstep." The questions stir around the room. He knows she can feel them too. They've always shared the curiosity, the questions. They could see the holes and instability of sense.

"And you haven't left it. What are you still doing here, Molly?" He turns sharp, watches her fiddle with her phone.

"I told Sally I'd wait here in case you were right. That she could just bring him back here, since he found you, not me. As long as he's in my custody, it doesn't matter." He eyes her, pulls out his phone and sends a few quick messages.

"I need to run some tests that require your equipment at Bart's. Are you adverse to me accessing it?" She shook her head, head leaned back. It had been a long day for her. "I'll be back then."

He'd already shrugged his coat around his shoulders and wrapped his scarf around his neck when he heard Molly hum behind him. Her eyes were wide, her bottom lip red and swollen between her teeth.

"Be careful, Sherlock. He came here first."

A small child had stirred so much fear. _Molly Hooper is the angel. _No an angel, not some angel. The Angel. As in, of importance, of singular focus. Set apart from all others. First and last name, no hopes that he'd mistaken the name. The chances of coincidence had dwindled to nothing at Hansel's excitement.

The most obvious reason Moriarty would come for Molly was revenge. She had helped Sherlock best him. The more he nitpicked this obvious fact, the more deceptive it became. Moriarty had chosen Molly before the Fall. He'd chosen her when he'd asked her for a date when he was still Jim from the IT department. He'd chosen Molly Hooper when he'd sauntered down to meet her and put on his façade. Moriarty had chosen his Pathologist not because she was his Pathologist, but because she was herself.

As ever, the loss of the obvious answer left a dozen questions in his wake. Not the least of which was why. Why choose Molly Hooper out of all the doctors in Bart's? He rung the question through the gears of his mind the entire walk to the hospital, until the moment he swiped Molly's card in the reader. Crossing the glass doors snapped his mind back to focus, back to work.

A dirt analysis proved nothing beyond he was correct. The dirt could have come from anywhere in London. A slight increase in pollen count could indicate the residence neighbored a park or garden. Pale, dusty tan color indicated a dry place, so outside the reach of any regular watering system.

The hair analysis was much more telling. Consistent use of over the counter sedatives. No sign of malnourishment. Oil build up present, though the sebum is stripped thin. Lack of vital dietary vitamins. So well fed, but with low-nutrient food. It wasn't enough to build a profile or tell him where the boy was from, but it was certainly enough to begin building a history.

Living near a park or garden, yet the ashen face of the young man was sign enough he'd not gone outside. Especially when coupled with the dark circles and rubbing of his joints at such an early age. Vitamin D deficient. He'd had to be kept inside, cramped.

Who was Hansel and how could he clear this mystery from the child?

It was far into the night, just on the tip of morning, when he returned to Baker Street. Molly slept in John's chair. The angle of her neck, the arch of her back all told him she'd wake up with aches. Pulling her legs up, nudging her head forward, he lifted her and dropped her into John's old bed.

He would spend the next several hours searching maps and lining up all knowledge to narrow down the possibilities. If he narrowed down from ten thousand possibilities to five thousand, it was progress. Never discount progress.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hansel**

Sherlock didn't move as Sally ushered the young boy back into the room.

"He's related. The results came in today. Now, you're going to have a lot of paperwork to do. We can't just hand him over, especially not since he's been traumatized. You'll have a few visits from a caseworker specifically assigned to Hansel." Sally's mouth quirked to the side, a habit she only enacted when experiencing doubt. "He's got a lot of problems. They are more than willing to give you a chance, but they are going to be testing you extensively. Your… association with Sherlock was mentioned as a point of concern."

His gaze shifted to Molly, who was sitting straight, her entire body an arrow pointing to the boy.

"I assure you, I will not let anything happen to him. Did they send any of the paperwork with you or…?"

"They'll be by with it later. I've given them your address. I don't think the… Sherlock's flat will leave a positive impression."

Sherlock didn't have to look around to know what Sally meant. Vials and beakers and odds and ends of experiments lay about. One look in the fridge and the boy would be sent off. He didn't know why she wanted to help this stranger, beyond the expected sense of familial obligation, but there was more. She faced Sally, and Sherlock noted the tired slump of her shoulders and the newly formed lines around her eyes.

"I'll take care of him, Sally. Don't worry."

The boy in question poked around, picking up papers and dishes and everything within reach. The moment he spotted the skull he made a run for it, Sherlock's arm barely catching the rascal's stomach. A scream shattered the quiet of Baker Street. Not the same terrified scream, but the petulant cry of child throwing a temper tantrum. Sally waved and ducked out, a wary glance at the boy before the door closed.

"Molly, I don't know how to fix this." He gestured at the child. Hansel had thrown himself to the floor, his arms and legs flailing, lungs bursting with a horrible noise.

Molly stepped over, gathered the swinging limbs into a tight embrace and carried him to John's chair. After enough cooing and calming he settled down into her arms, thumb plopped in his mouth and eyes still teary.

"Hey, would you like to see my home?" Her voice was still quiet, but the question carried through the living room.

"Molly, I still have to ask questions. We need to find who sent him here. We need to find out who calls you angel."

"I already told you—"

"We can't be sure it's him until we have data. Never theorize before you have the facts."

"Sherlock, he needs to adjust. He needs to rest."

"He rested yesterday."

"Sherlock." Her tone warned him to back down, to be patient. They didn't have time for patience.

_Molly is the angel._

She was in danger. He supposed he was as well, but that seemed a bit less important in light of all that had happened over the course of the last two days. Whoever had gone through the trouble of finding and holding Hansel had been in it for the long game. If it was Moriarty, Sherlock would have to reorganize every bit of information he had on the man. That would shift the dynamic around quite a bit.

"We're going to have to go home Sherlock. Sally's right. I can't let the social worker meet me here. They'd have a fit."

"I'll go with you."

"Sherlock, that won't look any better."

"It will look fine. I will not speak to the social worker unless spoken to and I will be gone before nightfall."

She gave him a strange look, as if he had grown a second head or done a strange dance.

"I need to ask him questions, Molly. I need to know what has happened."

"Only if he's ok with it."

"Let me come with him. If we can test his jacket and do some cross checks on any new information he gives us, we might be able to find who's been holding him."

"What are we going to do if we find them? We don't even know what crimes they've committed. This isn't one of your murder cases, Sherlock. This is more complicated than that."

"He deserves to have his abductor behind bars."

Molly took a deep breath, setting her shoulders back the way she always did when she had something important to say.

"We don't have proof he's been abducted. My mother could have put him up for adoption, or given custody to a friend. There's a number of possibilities."

"Adoption." He narrowed his eyes, looked Hansel over once more. "Molly, let's hurry on to your house. We've got some memories to explore. You still have that large picture book with all those pictures of you and that cat?"

"Sherlock, I've a lot of picture books."

"Well, we'll be having a look at all of them." She didn't question further as she headed out the door. The minute she'd walked through the door Hansel went into a fit, gaining unwanted stares from passersby.

"Sherlock Holmes can save me! Sherlock Holmes can save me!" He wriggled from her grip, scurried back into the house, and clung like an anchor to Sherlock's legs. Molly watched aghast as Sherlock remained rooted to the spot inside his flat.

"Come on, we've got to go to my house." Tired eyes plead with him, but there's nothing he can do with his calves wrapped in child arms.

"Hansel?" The boy looked up. It was highly improbably that this was his real name. He must have heard Sherlock call him that before being carted away somehow. Or maybe Sally had referred to him as such. The name did seem rather fitting for the young one. "Hansel, you've got to go with Molly. She is the angel. She can keep you safe."

"No. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes can save me. Molly Hooper is the angel, Sherlock Holmes can save me." The two sentences were intrinsically connected in the boy's psyche. If he could just find out how the two were connected.

Molly's phone rang. By the biting of her lip, it was the social worker.

"Yes. I know, I'll be ready. Thank you for calling ahead." She hung up the phone, expression waning into desperation. "Sherlock, clean your flat."

"Clean my… What?"


End file.
